Amie Barrodale: You Are Having a Good Time

“I guess you can’t talk about the imp.”

“What are you talking about? What do you mean?” Cynthia murmured quickly. It was a simple, boring line, but Cynthia said it with venom and made it compelling.

“Well, are we going to live in a portal to another dimension?”

They went through the scene.

Victor’s voice was hard. “Let’s do it again. Same thing I suggested before, Libby. It’s not credible, Libby.”

“You never suggested anything ,” Libby said. She looked to Cynthia for support, but Cynthia was fixing her makeup. Libby turned to Victor and said, “I want suggestions. I need suggestions. I’m happy to be directed. Please tell me what you want.”

Victor was quiet.

“Well, at least deign to reply.”

Victor slowly took off his headphones and turned to face Libby.

She said, “Deign to answer me. I’m a human being, after all, with feelings.”

Victor got up out of his chair and came over to the set. He spoke calmly. He was intent and gentle. He said, “You’re the actress.”

Then he looked at the scene from where he stood, turned to an assistant, and said, “Can I get a camera and monitor over here?”

They redid the scene all afternoon, into the night. After wrap, Libby and Cynthia went to a bar downtown. The bartender gave them a couple of appetizers on the house, but Libby was too nervous to eat. She drank her entire drink in a gulp and asked for another.

Cynthia said, “I have to tell you something. If you promise you can keep it a secret. I think I’m in love with Vic.”

“What?”

“He made me promise not to tell anyone, especially you. But after I took the part, he started calling me all the time, sometimes several times a day, and we’d have these really intense conversations — like stuff nobody’s ever asked me. You know, we’d be talking about German philosophy one minute, and then he’d be talking about beer commercials and La Jetée , and I know he’s this short, dumpy guy with oily hair, in those beat-up trainers, but there’s something so sexy about his mind, you know?”

“Sure,” Libby said. “Isn’t Victor married?”

“Well”—Cynthia lowered her voice—“we’ve been fooling around on set.”

“When?”

“Only twice!” Cynthia said. “I don’t want to be a homewrecker. I totally respect the sanctity of marriage, but when Victor Vargas tells you to come into his office … I mean, he’s irresistible, you know that. There’s a reason the studios treat him like a god.”

“Hm.”

The two women were quiet. Libby wanted details, and she knew Cynthia wanted to give them, but to get them out of her, Libby started talking about her ex-boyfriend. When she paused, Cynthia returned to Victor.

“The first time was after your second week of shooting. He asked me to dinner, and I took a call from my agent at the table, and I could tell that really annoyed him, so he spent the meal sort of slicing Jake into fillets, saying, ‘You should dump him.’ And then he took me back to the studio, and he had this pack of cigarettes in his desk. I was like, ‘Oh Jesus.’”

“What?”

“You don’t know? I thought everybody knew.”

“He smokes?”

“He’s one of those guys who’s into smoking.”

Libby squinted.

“He likes you to smoke while you give him a blow job. He likes to see the cigarette by his cock.”

“What!”

“I know!”

“But so did you do it?”

“Yeah, and then he was like ‘You can take a shower if you want. I have to get this lighting issue worked out.’”

“Well…” Libby’s mouth was dry. “That’s okay with you?”

“The French do it. The second time, he told me to get on all fours, and I was looking at the bathroom tiles in A. With a cigarette in my mouth.”

* * *

After that night she noticed the way sleeping with Victor had thrown Cynthia off balance, and the way being off balance changed her performance. She had come in a technician, but her uncertainty made her human. The shoot was supposed to wrap in three months, but Victor extended it. Five months later, Libby came in late for a rehearsal, and she was relieved to find Victor talking to the furniture people and the light people about the shine coming off the wallpaper. He was suggesting a light that the lighting guy hadn’t heard of and didn’t have.

He said, “I’m okay with you using what you have, as long as you can light it so we don’t get that shine.” He turned to Vivian and said, “What time is it? Where’s Libby?”

“I’m ready to shoot,” Libby said. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

Victor exchanged a look with one of the technicians. “That’s okay,” he said. “Are you ready to go? Do you know your lines?”

“Of course.”

“Really know them, Libby?”

She wasn’t sure what he meant. She might have gotten into her habit of paraphrasing, but Victor hadn’t complained about it. He hadn’t seemed to notice.

He said, “Hey, can you hand me that,” and extended his hand toward the technician, who handed him the shooting script. He turned back to Libby. “Let’s go through the lines. That sounds good, for you.”

Everyone was quiet, watching her.

“What?”

He laughed. “It’s the first line of the scene, Libby. That sounds good, for you.”

She was confused.

“Okay, Libby. Everybody, Libby’s not ready. Let’s— Al?”

The assistant director, a woman named Alice, stood up and came over to talk to Victor.

Libby was confused. She said, “Does anyone happen to have a breath mint or a stick of chewing gum?”

“A stick of chewing gum,” Victor said. He and Al went through the door out onto the lot to confer. A few minutes later, the assistant director came back on set and said, “Victor wants to do the love scene today. Everybody clear out. Cynthia, you have the day off. Maria? Get Michael in here, into wardrobe. And Vivian? Victor wants you to dress Lib.”

“Who?”

“Libby — Libby. Get her changed into the—” She gestured around her chest.

* * *

A year and a half later, back at her mother’s house in Texas, Libby got a message from her agent. She said, “Good news!” and asked her to call. Libby had been nominated for an Academy Award, for best supporting actress.

“Oh.”

“You don’t sound excited.”

“No, I am. I’m honored about it, of course.”

“Is something wrong?”

“I guess I feel like Victor should have told me. I feel like since we wrapped, he’s ignored me. Also, wasn’t I the lead?”

“Well”—her agent always got nervous when Libby talked to her like they were friends—“I set you up with Stella McCartney. A woman there, I think it’s Tiffany, is going to be in touch. Can you go in sometime this week to borrow a dress?”

* * *

Libby tried on a red floral-patterned party dress. It was mid-calf length, with a ruffled one-shoulder top. It made her look like she was forty years old and three times divorced. But she wasn’t sure if that was how she looked. She walked across the floor to look in a mirror in the daylight.

“Are you shopping for a special occasion?” the clerk asked.

“I was nominated for an award,” she said. “From the Academy of Arts and Letters.”

“Libby Mullins, Best Supporting Actress.” He laughed. He said, “I recognize you now. It didn’t hit me at first. Come in back and let me show you the line.”

Libby blinked.

“I mean, you’re welcome to anything out here, but we have the spring line in back. I already did some pulls.”

Libby was trembling. The little clerk made her nervous. He took her to his office. “That way you don’t have to stand in a changing room.” A few minutes later, he rolled in a rack with eleven dresses hanging on it. Libby chose four to try on, and narrowed it down to a white strapless jumpsuit.